


In his Master's Steps

by wesleyfanfiction_archivist



Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-07-08
Updated: 2005-07-08
Packaged: 2018-05-31 10:28:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6466732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wesleyfanfiction_archivist/pseuds/wesleyfanfiction_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wesley encounters an old acquaintance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In his Master's Steps

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Versaphile, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [WesleyFanfiction.net](http://fanlore.org/wiki/WesleyFanFiction.Net). Deciding that it needed to have a more long-term home, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact the e-mail address on [WesleyFanfiction.net collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/wesleyfanfiction/profile).

SPOIlERS: Post S5 BtVS, S2 AtS. I've been a bit flexible with the timing here - Buffy's still dead at this point...  
NOTES: Title and various quotes from “Good King Wenceslas” (John Mason Neale). Huge hugs to Bethy who beta-ed beautifully.

**In His Master’s Steps**

He set his pint down and surveyed the room with a vague sense of dissatisfaction. The old adage was right; you can never go home again. The pub looked the same, but the atmosphere was subtly changed. He had hoped for a quiet pint in the Inklings room, but it appeared that the recent release of “The Fellowship of the Ring” had guaranteed that even at this time of year it was filled with tourists. He’d always been more of a Lewis fan, really. Hardly surprising considering he’d spent a good deal of his childhood wishing for a doorway to Narnia in the cupboard under the stairs. 

‘The Bird and Baby’ had been a stalwart of his student pub-crawl days, though he’d been such a lightweight then that he’d barely made it into ‘The Lamb and Flag’ opposite, before collapsing face-first onto the beer-soaked bar. He blushed at the memory, recollecting his drunken declarations that he preferred to give custom only to those pubs with a literary connection. Even pissed, he’d been a pompous little twerp.

He drained his pint swiftly and set the empty glass down on the bar, then headed out into the night. The blast of cold air that hit him in the face as he stepped onto the pavement sobered him immediately, although he’d only had a couple of pints of Younger’s. He pulled his overcoat tightly around him and adjusted his scarf, wondering exactly when he’d forgotten how bloody cold England could be. 

He trudged down St Giles, back towards his rooms in St John’s, hampered slightly by the three inches of snow that had seemed to have fallen since he popped into the pub for a quick pint. The conference didn’t officially begin until tomorrow, but he’d come up to Oxford a few days early, ostensibly to recapture the halcyon days of a not so misspent youth. 

The alternative had been to spend a further two days at the family home in Hampshire, with an assortment of mildly obnoxious relatives, ranging from harmlessly insane maiden aunts to deeply inbred cousins (twice-removed) on his mother’s side. And even they were preferable company to his father at the moment. He didn’t think he could have borne another interminably awful afternoon, listening as his various failures were singled out and discussed at length; possibly in alphabetical order.

He was passing St Giles church when he heard it. At first he thought there must be a choir practice, and he was listening to the tenor solo. But the fairly regular insertions of mild expletives led him to the conclusion that the soloist was not a member of any church choir. The singer was approaching from the opposite direction, weaving slightly on the slushy footpath, singing with joyous abandon.

_“Hither page and stand by me_  
If thou knowst it telling  
Yonder peasant who is he,  
Where and whence his – argh! Bloody hell – ing!” 

The slightly atypical version of the final rhyme was due mainly to the fact that the chorister had slipped on a particularly treacherous stretch of pavement and landed on his arse in the slush. 

Wesley blinked once and resisted the urge to adjust his glasses. It couldn’t be. He peered down at the now recumbent individual, who was swearing softly and creatively. 

“Giles?” Wesley reached a hand out to help the other man to his feet. 

“Good God! What the hell are you doing here, Wesley?” Not the most auspicious of greetings, but Wesley persevered. 

“The Winter LAGB conference in Somerville.” He gave an embarrassed cough. “Probably a lot of dry dusty academics getting over-excited about comparative philology and morpho-syntactic mismatches.”

Giles brushed his jacket with intense concentration, then stood before him, swaying gently in the breeze. “That’s absolutely fascinating.” He yawned pointedly. “So, you’re out on your own now?” he half-sneered. “Heard you got fired. Again.” 

So much for camaraderie from a fellow countryman. Wesley bit back the retort which came unbidden to his lips. _Heard your slayer died. Again._ Angel had been devastated by the news; he couldn’t begin to imagine how Buffy’s death might have affected Giles. 

“The agency’s under new management,” he said dryly, shoving his hands deeper into his overcoat pockets. “Angel works for us now.”

Giles smiled gleefully. “Oh, that must be excruciatingly awful for him. How wonderful.” 

“It is, rather.” Wesley couldn’t help smiling back. “What are you doing here? Or perhaps you can’t tell me. Council business, hush-hush, need to know only?” 

Giles took a step forward and wobbled delicately on one foot. He put out his hand and grabbed Wesley’s shoulder for balance. “That conference. The dry dusty academics with the amorphous whatsits? I’m the guest speaker.”

Sometimes Wesley wondered if he had a foot insertion clause attached to his mouth. “Oh.” He paused as Giles regained his footing. “Ah. I see.” He really didn’t. As far as he was aware Rupert Giles had specialized in history rather than linguistics at Oxford. His face must have betrayed his bewilderment.

“You seem perplexed, Wesley. Anything I can help with?” 

“I was just wondering about your paper for the conference.”

Giles began to laugh. “Are you asking to see my credentials?” 

Wesley was rather glad it was dark, considering the blush that was colouring his face. “No, I… I just wondered…”

“I’m sure we’ve had this conversation before. There’s a lot to be said for field work. In the actual field.” Despite the reprimand, Giles’ tone wasn’t quite as sarcastic as Wesley expected.

“I was an insufferable prig, wasn’t I?” 

“You were, rather. If it’s any consolation, you seem to have improved with age. Although you’re disgustingly sober for this time on a Friday evening.” Giles waved an unsteady finger in Wesley’s face to emphasize his point. “Clearly you have no idea how to properly conduct a pub crawl. It’s my duty as senior watcher to set an example for you.”

“I was planning to have an early night…”

“Nonsense. I’ll consider it a personal affront if you refuse to accompany me.” Giles folded his arms across his chest, the stern effect of which was somewhat lessened by the fact that the action caused him to overbalance and topple backwards. Wesley caught his shoulder and pulled him upright.

“Thank you.” Drunken Giles, it seemed, was nothing if not well-mannered. “So, it’s settled?”

Wesley nodded in resignation and the senior watcher gave him a lopsided grin. “I think we’ll start with ‘The Gloucester’.”

Wesley knew this had to have been Giles’ regular at Oxford. He’d heard the stories about Ripper; the rebellion of one Rupert Giles had been a topic of fervent discussion after lights out at the Watcher’s Academy. There’d even been rumours of a rock band. 

“I’m hardly dressed for ‘The Gloucester’.” He gestured to his conservative grey wool overcoat and trousers.

“Well, they don’t actually insist you wear leather to get in.” Giles’ grin grew wider, and he strode a few unsteady paces along the snow-laden footpath, then swung back to face Wesley. “Come on, Pryce, get your bloody arse in gear!” 

Wesley sighed and set off behind the older man. “Just as long as I don’t have to sing.”

Giles’ laugh was disturbingly deliberate, and his voice rang out in the crisp chilled air.

_“Mark my footsteps good my page,  
Tread thou in them boldly…”_


End file.
